


A Group Almost Historic

by ancslove



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Era, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 08:38:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16678249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancslove/pseuds/ancslove
Summary: A collection of one-shots of Les Amis de l'ABC.  Most are Canon Era, snapshots of their lives together.





	1. First Meeting (Combeferre and Jehan)

Ordinarily, Combeferre loved nothing more than browsing through the small bookshop.  He adored the smell of new books, the feel of crisp pages and smooth leather beneath his fingers, and the simple fact that he was surrounded by knowledge, inspiration, and history.  Books were Progress, maybe not as technical and visually spectacular as his various experiments and inventions, but with a charm and excitement that nothing could rival.  Today, however, Combeferre had no time to waste.  He needed one particular book to finish his paper.  Head down - why tempt himself with all the alluring knowledge around him? - he strode through the shop and directly to the corner housing the medical and scientific books.  Ahh, there it was!  Combeferre stooped to grab his prize, and then stopped short as the book somehow refused to budge.  Puzzled, Combeferre looked down, then hurriedly backstepped as an unexpected pair of hazel eyes met his.

Seated on the floor, practically at his feet, was a young man with his hand on the bottom half of his much-needed book.  "My apologies, Monsieur,“ the stranger spoke.  "Did you want this one?  Only, this is the only copy the shop has, and I’d been looking forward to perusing it.”

Combeferre scrutinized the youth.  He didn’t really look like a scientist.  In a flowery waistcoat, brightly clashing shirt, and large, floppy hat with - was that a feather? - jutting from the brim, he looked rather insane.  Or maybe blind.  

“Are you a medical student?  I don’t recall seeing you in any of my courses.  And yes, I do need this book rather urgently.”

“No, no!” the boy laughed.  "I study literature - poetry, really, - but lately I’ve been fascinated by the decomposition of human bodies.  Imagine what secrets could be uncovered!  That drive brought me here.“

Combeferre tilted his head, studying the other yet more closely.  Intriguing.  He’d never known someone, besides himself that is, so eager to learn about fields of study so far removed from their original course.  His friends were all highly intelligent and educated beings, but tended to stick to their disciplines.  Enjolras, for example, had little practical interest in anything that did not directly impact the Republic.  Joly could not quite grasp the immediate importance of world geography or Chinese literature.  This new boy’s curiosity was admirable, and sparked a reciprocal curiosity in Combeferre.

"Well, as I said, I do need this book.  Perhaps we could come to an agreement?”

“I am all ears, as they say.” The boy smiled, and the gesture struck Combeferre anew.  He had a quite inviting smile, warm and gentle, yet with a hint of mischief.  

The boy spoke up again, “There’s a cafe nearby.  Maybe we could split the cost of the book here, and work out a more permanent agreement over a coffee?  If you’re a medical student, I’d love to hear your opinions on this subject!”

“I am,” Combeferre replied.  "And that plan sounds quite acceptable.  My name is Combeferre.“

Another warm smile, brighter this time.  "I’m Jehan Prouvaire.”

_Jehan?_ Definitely intriguing.  Perhaps his paper could wait a few more hours.

 


	2. Content (Enjolras and Courfeyrac)

A cold, wet cloth pressed into his wounded flank, Courfeyrac bit down on a scream, and ended up emitting a pitiful whimper instead.  Part of him realized that this was terribly undignified, and he’d ruined his favorite new waistcoat, with the gold buttons and embroidery.  The rest of him simply _hurt_.  He squirmed away from the offending cloth, trying to ease the strain in his ribs, but that only caused his entire torso to spasm with sharp, shooting pain.  

“Stop that,” came the order, and Courfeyrac instinctively obeyed, freezing in place.  His companion finished bathing the gash in his side, then looked up at him.  Blue eyes softened in empathetic pain.  Enjolras put aside the bloodied cloth, switching it out for a glass of brandy.  He lifted Courfeyrac’s head and shoulders and helped him sip.  

“Better?”  Still cradled in the crook of Enjolras’ arm, Courfeyrac nodded.  They had no laudanum here, so brandy would have to suffice, not that Courfeyrac was complaining.  Everything hurt, as his body decided to transform itself from its usual pale cream color into a multi-hued blob.  Enjolras removed the glass and lowered Courfeyrac back against the pillow.  Did Courfeyrac imagine it, or did Enjolras’ fingers linger against the back of his neck, as he withdrew?  

The fleeting caress transformed into a much firmer touch, as Enjolras began bandaging his wounds.  Courfeyrac tried to keep still, whining a little as each wound twinged.  Every so often, Enjolras would pause, meet his gaze, and squeeze his hand.  Courfeyrac held onto that connection, trying his best to make his friend proud.

Finally, it was finished.  Enjolras leaned over him, one hand caressing Courfeyrac’s cheek.  "I’ve done everything I can, and you’ll need to keep still and rest.  But I’m no doctor, let me fetch Combeferre.“

Courfeyrac, now drained from the effects of the attack and drowsy from the brandy, nuzzled into the comforting touch, purring a bit, as the gentle fingers played over his skin.  Enjolras was soft and warm, and despite everything, Courfeyrac suddenly felt quite content to be in this moment.

Enjolras started to withdraw, eliciting a whimper of protest.  "Stay!  Please?”

Courfeyrac looked up with his best pitiful face.  Yes, it was undignified, but right now, he couldn’t bear to let Enjolras go.  Enjolras was solid, reassuring, and as long as he was there, Courfeyrac knew that everything would be alright.

Enjolras held his gaze, searching for something, then finally seemed to come to a decision.  He removed the excess bandages and basin of water, then took off his shoes and cravat.  Knowing he was about to get his wish, Courfeyrac grinned, or at least tried to.  Enjolras stretched out beside him, careful of Courfeyrac’s injuries.  One hand came up across Courfeyrac’s shoulders, to play in Courfeyrac’s hair.

Wholly content, Courfeyrac fell asleep in Enjolras’ arms.


	3. Late Night (Enjolras/Feuilly)

“Mmm.  We should return to work,” Enjolras whispered.  

In response, a wet tongue laved his jawline.  "In a minute.  Busy now.“  

A trail of kisses moved upward from jaw to ear, and Enjolras arched into that talented mouth, quite forgetting his earlier train of thought.  He gasped when he was pushed backward, shoulder blades striking the wooden table.

Feuilly grinned down at him.  "Sorry.  Let me make it up to you.”  Another kiss, deep in his mouth, and Enjolras yielded willingly.  As Feuilly kissed, his hands busied themselves opening Enjolras’ clothes.  Almost unconsciously, Enjolras’ own hands rose to mirror his lover’s actions.  When both were bare to the waist, Enjolras pulled Feuilly down on top of him.  "Soon, the people will rise.  The hour is at hand, and the new dawn will illuminate all of France.“

Laughing a little, Feuilly brushed back a tendril of golden hair, "You have the oddest pillow talk.  Not that I’m complaining.”  Artistic fingers, slender and nimble, made quick work of belts and trouser fastenings.  As he worked, Feuilly continued, “You’re right, of course.  Soon, we’ll be free.  To choose our own paths, unbowed by the birthright of poverty and ignorance.  And once truly free, the people will wonder how they ever were willing to endure such conditions.”  

Enjolras opened his legs, sighing with pleasure as he was filled.  More kisses, fierce with desire and triumph, as they found their rhythm together.  Enjolras twined their fingers together, “Released from the need for crime and deceit.  Like that, yes!”

Words were lost as Feuilly complied, driving them both to new heights.  Finally, Feuilly slowed, smiling at Enjolras’ strangled cry of complaint, and whispered, “And on the night of our victory, I’ll take you again, on our barricade.  We’ll ring in the new day.”

Enjolras came, lost in a pleasure that went far beyond the physical realm.  Feuilly followed him with an ecstatic shout, and then collapsed onto Enjolras’ chest.  They lay there for several minutes, sweaty and sticky.  Finally, Enjolras pushed a hand against Feuilly’s shoulder, urging him up.  Feuilly rose, pulling the blond up as well.  On his feet, Enjolras leaned into him for a moment, then turned to survey the abandoned maps, plans, and sketches.  "Back to work?“


	4. A Little R&R (Enjolras/Courfeyrac)

“We came here to relax.”  Courfeyrac wrapped his arms around Enjolras from behind and nuzzled the marble-pale neck.  

“You came to relax, I have work to finish,” Enjolras corrected, but he leant into the touch, purring involuntarily.  The arms around him tightened and Courfeyrac chuckled into his throat.

“Come on.  The hard part is won, and the paperwork can wait a bit.  You can’t do your part for the Republic if you wear yourself out from overwork.”

They both knew that this wasn’t quite correct.  In many ways, winning on the barricades was the easy part, the real test and struggle would be implementing their victory and maintaining their ideals.  Enjolras was ready to meet and exceed the challenge.  

Courfeyrac nudged him with his chin, “A few hours, a bit of rest and recreation.  Then you can return to this, refreshed physically and mentally.”

Turning in the other’s arms, Enjolras smiled.  "I’m not sure your idea of recreation will be very restful, physically speaking.  You may have to persuade me further.“

Ensured of his victory, Courfeyrac entwined a hand in the beautiful golden hair and swooped down to steal a kiss.  

"Is that persuasion enough?" 

"Not nearly.”  Enjolras tugged him back down and Courfeyrac happily complied.


	5. More R&R (Courfeyrac/Enjolras)

“Would you please hold still? You’re making this terribly difficult.” Courfeyrac admonished, running the comb once again over a disturbed lock of blond hair. Enjolras, lying face down with his head pillowed in Courfeyrac’s lap, tried to obey. For a few minutes, he remained calm, allowing Courfeyrac to comb through his hair. Then, another twitch earned him a light slap across the rump and an exasperated “Stop that!”

Courfeyrac sighed, leaning back. “What’s up with you? You never fidget.”

Enjolras sighed in return, craning his head back to look up at the other. “I don’t know. It feels - not wrong, exactly, but … so decadent, I suppose. Having you comb my hair like a servant.”

“Ah, I see. And if you were seated at an ornate vanity, surrounded by perfumes and powders, ordering me to give your hair 100 strokes, ala the Austrian woman, you might have a point. But as we are not, please try to relax and enjoy my skill.”

Enjolras glared half-heartedly. “That was a low blow.”

Grinning, Courfeyrac set the comb aside and slid down to spoon up behind his lover. One hand wormed lower, gently gripping between Enjolras’ legs. “No, darling. This is a low blow. That was called winning a debate. I know you don’t lose debates often enough to recognize when it happens.”

Feeling Enjolras relax in his arms, Courfeyrac smiled. This wasn’t the first time that his new lover had balked at indulging Courfeyrac’s more demonstrative overtures. But Courfeyrac was an apt and patient teacher, and he loved showing Enjolras the pleasures and benefits of romantic adoration. “Now, have I set your mind sufficiently at ease? I love your hair, I could write untold sonnets to its glory. And I am very good at fixing it. So, lay back and let me work my magic.”

“I don’t remember conceding the debate,” Enjolras protested, but his smile said otherwise, and his body soon followed suit, relaxing completely under Courfeyrac’s attention.

Taking up the comb, Courfeyrac resumed his ministrations. “Thank you. And later, I’ll show you how to curl my hair.”

“Deal.”


	6. A Question Asked and Answered (Combeferre/Enjolras, Modern AU)

Combeferre shifted uncomfortably on the cheap vinyl-covered chair in the university Commons.  His fingers tapped nervously, and he made an effort to still them.  His brain told him that he shouldn’t be nervous.  After all, he’d met Enjolras here a hundred times already.  In Enjolras, he’d found a kindred spirit, a true friend and confidante, someone who made him feel whole and happy.  They could talk for hours, about almost any subject, or they could sit together in companionable and completely comfortable silence, without any need for words between them.  

And today, Combeferre wanted to take their relationship to the next level.  His awareness of his true feelings had been gradual, but he could no longer deny the love he felt for his closest friend.  Love on every level.  He had to at least ask.  If Enjolras didn’t share the nature of his feelings, then he could be happy with their close friendship, but he must at least try.  He was jerked from his thoughts by the opposite chair scraping across the floor.

“Hi.  Sorry, class ran late.  Have you been here long?”

Enjolras slid into the chair, dropping a bag of books at his feet.  Combeferre couldn’t suppress a smile at the sight of him.

“Not long at all,”  he lied.  "How are you?  Want something to drink?“  Damn, he suddenly sounded like a lovesick schoolboy.  

"I’m fine, thanks.  You wanted to talk of something?”  That was Enjolras, cutting neatly to the heart of a matter, with an almost forceful grace.  Combeferre admired that quality.  Now, if only he could emulate that as he casually asked Enjolras out for a date.

“I love you!”  

Not exactly what he’d planned.

A vaguely confused smile answered him.  "I love you too, I thought you knew that by now.“

Fumbling for Enjolras’ hand, Combeferre pressed on.  "No, I mean yes, I knew that.  But, I’m _in_ love with you.”

Enjolras’ smile neither faltered nor widened, but his eyes glowed warm and soft.  "Likewise.  Shall we go to dinner?“

Combeferre exhaled in joyful relief as Enjolras pulled him up and toward the exit.


	7. Duty and Reward (Combeferre and Enjolras)

Combeferre stumbled through the door of his apartment and collapsed, groaning, backward onto the couch. Everything hurt. His arms hung limply from his aching shoulders, his thighs burned. He normally considered himself a reasonably fit and capable man, but singlesticks was simply not his forte. His skill lay with guns, but Enjolras encouraged all the Amis to be proficient at close-quarter fighting.

“You won’t always have a working gun or range weapon at hand when needed. You won’t always have the room to use it. I need to know that you can guard yourself in multiple ways.”

And so Combeferre had relented, and joined Enjolras on an afternoon of martial arts. And his reward for his good friendship and republicanism was a physically indignant, angrily protesting body. A cool glass balanced on his forehead, and he forced his eyes open. Enjolras, one hand steadying the glass of water, looked down at him with an expression of hidden amusement.

“You did quite well today. And although I know it hurts now, it’s a healthy kind of pain.”

“Don’t speak, it’s too soon for encouraging praise or talk of how this agony is helpful. And, ‘Quite well” is not enough to keep up with you.“ 

Enjolras shrugged gracefully, not sore in the least. "Not many of the Amis can keep up with me. But you’re a quick learner and a good improviser.”

From anyone else, that statement would reek of condescending arrogance, but Enjolras made it simple, non-judgemental fact. Enjolras had no time either for self-satisfied boasting or false modesty, and his effective leadership stemmed in large part from his ability to clearly recognize his friends’ strengths and weaknesses, and plan accordingly. 

Perching on the arm of the sofa, Enjolras offered the water. Combeferre levered his heavy, bruised form up, taking the glass with a groaned gratitude. Much to his chagrin, Enjolras needed to help him sip, and Combeferre mentally vowed that he would never take up singlesticks again. Bloody uncivilized things, he could ensure that he always had working guns and ammunition at hand. Part of him realized that he was being horrifyingly childish, but the rest of him was too exhausted and sore to care.

“Lie down on your stomach.”

The glass was laid aside, and his body responded to the order before his mind had the chance to jerk from his bout of self-pity. Before he could put voice to his confused annoyance, hands settled on his shoulders, kneading firmly. Another moan, this time of relief, escaped his lips. Enjolras continued to work the tired muscles, until Combeferre lay boneless and nearly asleep beneath his hands. 

“There, better? Healthy pain quickly turns to enlightened satisfaction.”

It was damned lucky for Enjolras that Combeferre was too tired and content to swat him as he deserved.


End file.
